


Fledging

by sparrow2000



Series: Magpie [2]
Category: BtVS - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:44:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriella drinks coffee and discovers the perils of talking to strangers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fledging

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Shameless baiting of an original character *g*  
> Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own all. I own nothing.  
> Comments are cuddled and called George  
> Beta extraordinaire: [](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/)**thismaz**  
>  This is a ficlet set in the same universe as [Magpie](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=sparrow2000&keyword=Magpie&filter=all) which you can find at my LJ or here at A03. Even though she was only in a few chapters, I fell in love with Gabriella, the terrifying Venetian Watcher, especially the way she wiped the floor with Spike and Xander. I decided I wanted to know more about what made her tick and especially why, in later years, she has such antipathy towards Spike, so I went rifling in her memories…

__  
**Ficlet: Fledging (Magpie 'verse)**  
  


It was too early for the café to be really busy. The lunchtime crowd was mostly gone and the early dinner crowd was still at work. That just left the few intrepid tourists who’d braved the wet, November Florentine weather and were looking for some shelter, and perhaps a little sustenance after a day spent wandering the enticing halls of the Uffezi.

For all that, the standing area of the Café Gilli was still bustling. Gabriella rested her elbows on the bar and took a tentative sip of her espresso. It was hot and bitter and tasted like the argument she’d had with Arturo the night before. She curled her lip. Men! They were good for one thing and Arturo hadn’t been very good at that, despite his reputation. Closing her eyes, she relived the moment she’d told him that she’d had better sex the night she lost her virginity to the gardener’s boy, when she was sixteen, than she’d had in the whole four weeks she and Arturo had been, what could only be loosely called, ‘dating’. It had been a sweet moment and she mourned the fact that she didn’t have the money to buy a celebratory pastry to go with her coffee. Single and proud of it was going to be her new mantra, she promised herself, and took another sip of her espresso. It was a new decade. She swore that the Seventies would be lived on her terms.

Her reverie on the uselessness of men in general, and Italian men in particular, was interrupted by the sound of raised voices coming from the seated part of the café. She tried to ignore them, but her natural curiosity finally got the better of her and she turned around to discover the reason for the commotion.

One of the waiters was arguing with a customer, who was seated with his back to her. A member of the Gilli staff arguing with a paying client was rare enough to intrigue her further. Straining her ears she could hear random words coming from both the waiter and the customer – ‘table’, ‘extra’, ‘bar’ and ‘price’ were followed by ‘bullshit’ and ‘get lost’ and a valedictory ‘bugger off’ said in a semi-cultured English voice that, from her summer sojourn in England, she identified as coming from somewhere in the South, possibly London, but she couldn’t be sure. She loved to solve puzzles, especially crossword puzzles, and when she put the words together in her head and added the accent of the stranger, she realised the nature of the problem. She smiled to herself. Here was an opportunity to show that a woman could help the poor benighted man, who obviously had no idea what the rules were in the Gilli.

Decision made, she picked up her bag from the bar and threaded her way through the tables, circling around until she was standing in front of the tourist’s table. The man in question, having sent the waiter off in a huff, was now reading a novel - a Penguin Classic version of Gulliver’s Travels. He seemed to be engrossed and she stood, wondering whether to walk away, before giving herself a mental kick. “Excuse me,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind me intruding?”

He raised his head and Gabriella gazed into blue eyes that look up at her appraisingly. His mouth quirked and he tilted his head and smiled. “You can intrude on me any time you like…”

She flushed, reminding herself that she was an emancipated, strong minded woman and she wasn’t going to be beguiled by an Englishman, no matter how engaging his smile. “I heard you, perhaps I could call it debating, with the waiter, about the cost of your coffee. You might not know that it’s customary to pay more if you sit at a table, rather than standing at the bar?” She gestured over his shoulder, back towards the bar, noticing with a frown that someone had already slid into her space and that her half drunk coffee was nowhere to be seen. She let her hand drop back down onto the top of her bag and was perturbed to notice that the stranger was smirking. Yes, smirking was definitely the word that sprang into her mind.

“I know,” he said. “I just don’t like the sharp practice, that’s all. It seems to me that a customer who’s all settled in a comfy chair is more likely to spend more than someone who’s standing up, so the whole thing just annoys me.”

She raised her eyebrows and was disconcerted when he raised his own right back. “So you were just complaining to make a point?”

“More or less…” He paused, before picking up the bookmark that had been sitting on the table in front of him, and placing it carefully in the open book. “You know, I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you. Would you like to sit down?”

“I’ve paid for a coffee at the bar.” She wasn’t going to admit that both her coffee and her spot had disappeared, but from the quizzical expression on his face, she had the feeling that he might just know.

“And I’ve paid over the odds for this table. So I’m guessing that evens things out, don’t you think?”

She stalled for time, suddenly feeling a lot less sure of herself than she had just a few minutes before. “I don’t know?” she said. “And I don’t know you,” she continued more firmly.

“Sure you do. Come on, live a little. I don’t bite.”

“I’m not entirely convinced about that,” she replied, gripping her bag just a little tighter. “A gentleman would introduce himself before he invited a lady to join him.”

“I never said I was a gentleman, but since I think you’re almost certainly a lady, I guess I’ll follow the etiquette.” He stood and bowed in a way that Gabriella could only have described as courtly, if words like courtly were still in fashion. “William – you can call me Will.”

Despite her sudden trepidation, she straightened her back and responded in kind. “Gabriella,” she said. “You can call me Gabriella.”

He grinned, nodding as if he approved of her reply and sat down again. “Wouldn’t dream of calling you anything else. Now, that coffee you ordered at the bar is probably cold. Why don’t I whistle up another for you and I’ll get one of the same. I think I’ve gone off this one,” he said, with a nod towards the half drunk coffee in front of him. “It’s not like they can charge me for the table twice.”

“Well…”

“Just let them try, that’s all I’ve got to say.” His fingers drummed on the cover of his book. “Please, join me. I’m beginning to get bored with Lilliputians.” The smile came again and she got the feeling he wasn’t necessarily talking about fictional characters. She acknowledged inwardly, that the thought appealed to her vanity. With a nod, she pulled out a chair and sat down, relieved that he hadn’t tried to pull it out for her.

William…Will, she corrected herself, motioned to a waiter and smiled at Gabriella. “What will you have? My treat, of course, since you’re saving me from boredom.”

“I’ll have a cappuccino,” she replied, all of a sudden in the mood for something a little frothier than her previous, Arturo flavoured espresso.

“Make that two,” he instructed the waiter. “I’m thinking I might also indulge in something a little sweet. What do you suggest?” he said, and she realised that he was asking her and not the waiter.

“Schiacciata alla fiorentina,” she replied decisively with a glance up at the waiter. She noticed without surprise that he wasn’t the one Will had had the argument with earlier. The waiter nodded to them both and bustled off.

“You going to tell me what you’ve ordered, or is it a surprise?”

“Do you like surprises?” She was surprised to hear a teasing tone in her voice and wondered, momentarily, what it was about the strange Englishman that made her feel so relaxed and somehow daring.

“Sometimes,” he replied with a ghost of a smile. “Depends really on who’s doing the surprising.”

“Well I hope you will enjoy this one. I’ve ordered what you would call Florentine Sponge Cake. It’s a speciality around Carneval time in February, but I feel like a little celebration today and since you said it was your treat...”

“So I did.” The smile was back in full force now. She had to admit that it would take a very strong minded woman, not to be just a little charmed by such a smile. “So, are you going to tell me what you’re celebrating?”

She toyed with telling him that it was none of his business, but considering she’d raised the subject and he’d bought her coffee and cake, she concluded that, in this instance, playfulness could easily teeter over into rudeness. “Where to begin!” she replied with her own smile, that she knew from compliments past was one of her many best features. “Breaking up with my dolt of a boyfriend. Passing my exams. Enjoying the city without the tourists,” she paused, “present company excepted. There’s always a reason to celebrate something.”

“A girl after my own heart.”

A few dozen responses jumped into her head, but Gabriella held her tongue as the returning waiter put down the requested coffee and pieces of cake, and spent what seemed like an endless amount of time fussily arranging the plates, cups and napkins. Finally he left and she took a fortifying sip of her cappuccino before looking at Will over the rim of her cup. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He echoed her movement, sipping at his coffee, before placing it carefully back in front of him and leaning forward, his elbows on the table. All of a sudden the space between them seemed to disappear, in a way that she was sure, had very little to do with his physical closeness. “Sure I do. You’re at university here, but you’re not from here. You’ve been in London for a while, but not this year.”

“How…”

“Your dress is Biba,’ he continued, not giving her time to finish her question. “My ex had one just like it, but in scarlet. Wore it until it fell off her back. But that was last year and fashion doesn’t stick around that long, that they’d still be producing the same style now. Your hair is very Vidal Sassoon. Makeup is probably Mary Quant. It suits you, but don’t make the mistake of trying to keep it like that for long. It will date quickly.”

“You’re very opinionated about fashion. It’s unusual in an Englishman.”

He shrugged. “I’ve seen styles come and go. The good ones always resurface, but unfortunately, a few of the naff ones raise their ugly heads again too. It’s as if every generation likes to dig up the previous one’s mistakes.”

“So you don’t think it’s healthy for people to make mistakes,” she questioned, frowning at the thought. ‘Not even if they come by them honestly?”

“Oh, I’m all for mistakes.” He paused and took a delicate bite of the sponge cake, munching slowly, an expression of obvious enjoyment on his face. “This is really good. See, it could have been a big mistake letting you order the goodies, but it wasn’t, so that a point in the plus column. You could as easily have ordered something nasty, just to see the poor Englishman suffer. On the other hand, I’m pretty good at reading people and I didn’t think you would. But most people make mistakes all the time. Wouldn’t be half as much fun, if people weren’t a little stupid sometimes.”

“I’m not sure I like your view of human nature. It seems very...” She trailed off, groping for the right word.

“Cynical?” he supplied. “Jaded...been there, done that?”

She tamped down an automatic reaction to refute his gentle accusation, realising that those were exactly the words that had been in her mind. “Alright, all of those things. It just surprises me that you’re so detached, when you don’t look much older than me.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Gabriella. I’ve been around. I’ve seen people do great things and I’ve seen people do awful things. I’ve always thought the human race is like one of those Matryoshka dolls. You keep opening up one layer after another and there’s another doll underneath. But one of these days, you get to the final one, and it’s tiny and there’s nothing left inside – all that’s there is a little, wooden doll.

“I feel I should be reading some great philosophical meaning into that,” she said.

“Not really. I’ve got family who would spin it into something deep and meaningful, but that’s the Irish for you - always looking for the meaning of life, usually at the bottom of a glass. Me? Sometimes I just like the sound of my own voice.” He took another bite of the cake, followed by a sip of coffee. “We were talking about mistakes. Usually the most interesting things come about because of an intention that’s just gone slightly awry. That’s where legacies start. That’s where history is usually made. The artists and writers who ate, and drank, and argued in this café, hoped they’d leave something behind. Something that others would talk about and learn from. Or maybe just shake their head in wonder at the sheer madness, stupidity or sometimes genius. Imagine Marinetti and Soffici arguing about the future of art, right here where we’re sitting. That’s how history’s made and that’s how we shape the present.”

As he talked, she found herself leaning forward, as if proximity could better capture his words, until she too had her elbows on the table and her chin propped on the backs of her hands. She couldn’t remember a time she’d been so intrigued. “You’re very passionate for an Englishman,” she said, feeling almost giddy with her own daring. “You make it sound as if you were right there in the room with them. It’s a more interesting perspective than most of the lectures I’ve been to. You’ve got a gift for words, though I wonder which side you would have been on in those arguments? Are you a Futurist, or do you think those ideas are an abomination?”

She was surprised at his sudden burst of laughter. “Not really. Not according to some folk. But yeah, I like history. I like words and I’m interested in people. Sometimes it’s fun to put them all together. Get under the skin of folk. Understand what gets their blood pumping. Get a real taste for what they think and feel and believe.” He tilted his head and she had the strangest feeling that he was looking through her, but then he slumped back in his seat with a sigh and the moment was gone. “As for Futurism? You’ve got to admit there’s something very enticing about a movement that celebrates speed and violence, youth and machinery. Sitting here, in all this elegance, you’ve got to admire the irony.”

“That’s something the English do very well – irony. It can be a little confusing at first.”

“That’s true. You should see the Americans trying to work out if you’re joking when you say it’s lovely weather, when it’s actually raining cats and dogs. They get this strained little smile, like they want to be polite and agree, but at the same time are desperate to contradict you.”

Realising that the intimacy of before was gone, she also sat back in her chair, her elbows now well clear of the table, just like her mother and grandmother had taught her when she was small. “Well, when it comes to rain, I suppose they think that the English are an authority?”

“Spoken like a girl who’s spent some time there, though I’ve already been through that with the look you’re working. But you’ve been there for longer than a shopping expedition, yeah?”

She nodded. “I spent a sabbatical there last summer, working for a Foundation that my father is connected with. It has a main office in London and a retreat in Devon, so I got to enjoy both the country and the city. It was quite the experience and I learned a lot.”

“So, are you going to follow in daddy’s footsteps?”

“It’s expected. But I have some time before I go down that road.”

“And that’s why you’re here in Florence,” he said, a knowing tone in his voice. “Kicking over the traces a bit, before you settle into a life in harness. I can understand that. What did the family think of you spreading your wings, if you don’t mind me mixing my metaphors?”

She could feel a blush spreading across her face and she wondered again how he was so perceptive. It really wasn’t comfortable. “No, I think it is fair to say that they were not happy. They wanted me to stay in Venice and study there. Then I could have lived at home.”

“And they could have kept an eye on you. Protected you from dolt-like boyfriends and impetuous Englishman who might tempt you with coffee and cake.”

“Possibly,” she admitted. “But I prefer not to be protected, so there was nothing to be done. Stubbornness is a family characteristic, but one that the family objects to having turned back on itself. So, here I am in Florence and I’ll be here for another two years.”

“I’m sure Florence is delighted to have you.”

She frowned, looking for the salacious connotation that she was almost sure was behind the comment. It certainly would have been if Arturo had made it, but Will just smiled and finished the last crumbs of his cake and she was forced to conclude that some things, obviously didn’t translate between cultures.

She pulled herself out of her thoughts and was startled to find that he was on his feet and was pulling some cash out of his wallet. He dropped it on the table and she was tempted to tell him that the etiquette was to give the money to the waiter, including a hefty tip. But remembering the way their encounter had started, she decided that her advice wouldn’t be welcome. He tucked his wallet back into the inside pocket of his jacket and smiled down at her. “Well, this has been pleasant, but I’ve got to be going.”

“Oh.” She was surprised at how disappointed she felt. So much for the emancipated woman she thought, entranced by a pair of blue eyes, a silver tongue and a mind that actually worked.

He pushed back his chair with one foot and moved round the table until he was standing at her side. “It’s been a pleasure, Gabriella. I’m sorry we couldn’t get better acquainted. This brief taste has been delightful.”

“Will you be back in Florence?” She hated how hopeful she sounded.

“Perhaps, someday. But I suspect not while you’re still studying. But who knows, maybe I’ll catch up with you in Venice one day.”

“But you won’t know where to look.” That’s it, she told herself, sound playful and teasing, but not needy. Never needy.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find you if I’m there. I never forget a face.”

He looked down at her and, for an instant, she wished that she had a camera, or a photographic memory, so that she could always recall the exact colour of his eyes. Then she kicked herself for thinking like a love-struck teen and pulled herself together. “You never told me your last name,” she said lightly. “I can’t tell the housekeeper to look out for random Englishmen called Will.”

“It’s an old family name. Aurelius, William Aurelius.”

“That’s a very grand name. At least your father settled on William instead of Marcus,” she said with a smile.

“Not really one for the classics, my dad. Even with William, it’s still a bit of a mouthful. That’s why most people call me Spike.”

He bowed, just as he’d done at their introduction, and again she was struck by the elegant, old fashioned movement, so at odds with the rest of his attitude. As he straightened up, he took hold of her right hand and placed a chaste kiss on her fingertips before letting go. “It really has been a pleasure, Gabriella,” he said.

Before she could say anything in reply, he turned and strode off, not looking back.

She stared at her hand, resting innocuously on the table, then back up to see if he was still in sight. But the Gilli was bereft of mysterious Englishman. Grasping her coffee cup, she took a fortifying drink, and his last words echoed in her head. “Most people call me Spike.” Her hand started to shake, her grip slackened and the coffee cup tumbled to the floor, shattering on the terracotta tiles. She bent down to pick up the shards and a sharp edge of porcelain sliced across the top of the middle finger that he’d kissed. Hissing, she jerked her hand back and straightened, watching, hypnotised, as a few drops of blood dripped sluggishly on to the copy of Gulliver’s Travels he’d left on the table.

She’d never felt more like a Lilliputian in her life.


End file.
